


Five Smiles

by mylifeinshadow



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 13:28:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19110628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylifeinshadow/pseuds/mylifeinshadow





	Five Smiles

The first time it happens, it nearly brings you to your knees. It's mere days after her abduction. Two weeks since you stood idly by her hospital bed and all but wished her back to life. She'd been thoroughly examined since being returned - twice, at your insistence, and today she is due to return to work.

You awoke from your restless slumber hours before your alarm was set to go off, anxious and wired, and consumed way more coffee than could be considered healthy in one sitting before making your way to work.

You blamed the odd feeling in your stomach on the coffee, the lack of food in your stomach a catalyst for the sudden indigestion your feeling as you power walk toward the elevator.

The doors are just closing as you arrive, but a polite hand reaches out to keep them open at your panicked request for it to wait.

It isn't until you rush into the elevator, a 'thank you' prepared on your tongue, when you realize who that hand was attached to.

A blinding smile greets you, and you blame it on the jitters as you nearly collapse. Maybe it's due to your inability to get the image of her, tiny and lifeless in that hospital bed out of your mind. In any case, she looks absolutely vibrant, and for once, your usual quick wit has failed you.

"Mulder," she says fondly, by way of greeting, and you quickly swallow the lump building in your throat.

"Good to have you back, Scully."

And it would've sounded casual, too, if it weren't for the hitch in your voice.

-

She's fresh off of a cancer diagnosis; you, until just a few hours ago, were considered dead. But when you hear word of her collapse, you can't help but run to her, risks be damned.

You've spent the last 48 hours running around like a mad man, trying to find answers for this disease so intent on taking her from you.

A damn chip in the back of her neck is what it finally takes. Something that you believe puts her at more risk, fucking catalogs her. But, god, she's alive. And that's all that matters.

You walk into her room after hearing the good news and she smiles. That goddamn smile that she always seems to save for just the right moment to bring you to your knees. You give her a smile of your own, pretending you weren't sobbing on her hospital bed just hours ago, and kiss her hands.

Warm. Alive.

-

She's late.

Okay, so it's only ten minutes late, and you're admittedly a bit on edge, but it's Scully. And she hasn't called. And goddammit, she left, and your mind can't help but immediately jump to the worst conclusions.

But she crawled into your bed last night. She crawled into your bed. She kissed you. She unbuttoned her shirt. She - Jesus.

You can still feel her fingertips digging into your shoulder blades, her thighs around your hips. You can still hear the gasp that left her lips when you finally slid inside her, her voice urging you to move.

But she left. She left, and now she's late. Last night was the single best night of your entire existence and to think just maybe she didn't have the same experience as you. To think that maybe she thinks it was a mistake.

You swear you can feel your heart leap in your chest when she finally walks into the office. You study her carefully - the grin on her lips, one that she is clearly having trouble restraining.

"Mulder," she greets you, meeting your eyes for just a moment before looking down shyly, allowing her grin to spread as she sets her briefcase down, pretends to busy herself with sorting the papers on her side of the desk.

Relief floods your body as you sit at your desk, trying desperately not to watch her every move; not to remember the way her body moved beneath yours mere hours ago.

You clear your throat instead, leaning toward her.

"What do you know about the Mongolian Death Worm, Scully?"

She rolls her eyes, but she's grinning.

She's here.

-

It's been two months.

Two months of jumping from hotel room to hotel room. Eight weeks spent mostly in the car, escaping the life you left behind - the life she was forced to leave behind.

Sixty days since she's seen her mother, spoken to her brothers. You can't help but feel guilty. All of this, for you. She gave up her family, her job, her home, to go on the run with you. Her entire life, just to save yours.

You don't talk about it - any of it. The guilt that you both know is eating you up inside. The miracle child that she was forced to give up. Instead, you busy yourself with talk of where you'll go next - how long until you'll eventually be able to settle down somewhere for more than a week.

Running low on supplies, you take a quick trip to Walmart. You decide to divide and concur - her grabbing toiletries, you searching for some temporary clothing.

A fresh pair of jeans, some underwear and undershirts in your basket, you find your way back to her, purposefully avoiding the baby section.

You find her in the hair dye aisle, a box in each hand. One brown, one blonde. You've talked about this - a few times, actually, and you know it'll make her feel more secure. Your heart still breaks a little, unable to imagine her as anything but a fiery redhead. But what's one more sacrifice?

As if feeling your eyes on her, she turns, and your heart nearly stops. Two months on the run, every single waking moment spent together, and she still looks absolutely delighted to see you.

Her smile lights up her whole face, your whole world, and she holds up the blonde hair dye.

\- 

It's been a long journey to this moment. The last decade particularly taxing. Between your descent into a deep depression, your mental breakdown and her subsequent absence. There was a time where you thought that this was it. After all you've put her through, after all she's sacrificed to be with you, this was her breaking point.

But now you're here, in your mid 50′s, looking at baby cribs. Finally, finally you have your second chance at a miracle. There's no giving up this time. You're both too damn tired after the last two years. This is it.

You try not to be terrified, knowing that you'll be pushing 60 when this kid is a toddler - knowing that your son is still out there somewhere, his body never recovered. She told you that she can sense him still, and you've never doubted her before. You won't start now.

You turn your attention away finally, realizing you've been stuck in the baby section for ten minutes after you sent her for paper towels. You'd brought her here after she'd mocked your pantry selections, explaining that sunflower seeds weren't enough to sustain the life growing inside her. You'd jumped at the chance to fill your kitchen with all of her favorite foods, hoping that it would be the final push to put her creepy smart house up for sale.

You make your way back to grocery and spot her over by the milk. Something inside of you cant resist standing back and watching her, her short little legs stretching as she reaches for that top shelf almost milk that she just loves. She's getting frustrated, and you finally take mercy on her, sneaking up and placing your hand on her lower back as you grab the milk.

You look down to tease her and she's smiling up at you thankfully. Your taken aback, frozen with a jug of her disgusting almond milk in your hand. Twenty-five years together, and she still smiles like this - like she hasn't seen you in years, rather than just a few minutes.

You take a moment to look at her, two and a half decades of love and trust in her expression, the slowly growing bump that her small hand rests upon. You can't help it - your eyes get misty, right there in the milk section, refrigerator still open.

A throat clears behind you, and you sheepishly apologize to the quickly growing line trying to get to the milk.

Your barely a step away when you feel her hand in yours. You meet her eyes, noticing the moisture in them for the very first time. You swallow the lump in her throat and she nods, because she knows.

She squeezes your hand, her voice barely more than a whisper when she utters the words you've been longing to hear.

"Let's go home."


End file.
